But of the fplendid train, who felt thy fway,
Or drew existence from thy vital ray,
Glory, with fondeft zeal, proclaim'd thy might,
And hail'd thee victor of oblivious Night..
Her martial trumpet to thy hand she gave,
At once to quicken, and reward the Brave:
It founds-his blood the kindling Hero pays,
A cheap and ready price for thy eternal praise!
Tho' felfish Fear th' immortal ftrain deride,
And mock the Warrior's wifh as frantic pride!
Ye gallant, hapless Dead of diftant time,
Whose fame has perish'd unembalm’d in rhyme,
As thro' the defert air your ashes fly,
In Fancy's ear the nameless atoms cry,
"To us, unhappy! cruel Fates refuse
"The well-earn'd record of th' applauding Mufe." 160.
Bleft are those Chiefs, who, blazon'd on her roll,
Still waken virtue in each kindred foul;
Their bright existence ftill on earth prolong,
And shine for ever in the deathless fong.
Yet oft Oblivion, in a treacherous fhade,
Has funk the tuneful rites to Valor paid;
Her palfied lips refufing to rehearse
The facred, old, traditionary verse.
As well the curious eye, with keen defire,
Might hope to catch that spark of vital fire,
Which firft thro' Chaos fhot a fudden light,
And quicken'd Nature in its tranfient flight;
As the fond ear to catch the fleeting note,
Which on the ravish'd air was heard to float,
When first the Mufe her Epic ftrain began,
And every lift'ning Chief grew more than Man.
But, as the Ruler of the new-born day
Before whofe blaze, in wide luxuriance fpread,
Each Grecian Star hides his diminish'd head;
Whose beams departed yet enchant the fight,
In Latium's fofter, chafte, reflected light.
Say ye! whofe curious philofophic eye
Searches the depth where Nature's fecrets lie;
Ye, who can tell, how her capricious fit
Directs the flow and ebb of human wit,
And why, obedient to her quick command,
Spring-tides of Genius now enrich her fav'rite land,
Now fink, by her to different climes affign'd,
And only leave fome worthless weeds behind!
Say! why in Greece, unrival'd and alone,
The Sovereign Poet grac'd his Epic throne?
Why did the realm that echoed his renown,
Produce no kindred heir to claim his crown?
If, as the liberal mind delights to think,
Fancy's rich flow'rs their vital effence drink
From Liberty's pure ftreams, that largely roll
Their quick'ning virtue thro' the Poet's foul;
Why, in the period when this Friend of Earth
Made Greece the model of heroic worth,
And saw her votaries act, beneath her fway,
Scenes more fublime than Fiction can display,
Why did the Epic Mufe's filent lyre *
Shrink from those feats that fummon'd all her fire?
Or if, as courtly Theorifts maintain,
The Mufes revel in a Monarch's reign;
* Ver. 207. See NOTE III:
Why, when young Ammon's foul, athirst for fame,
Call'd every Art to celebrate his name;
When ready Painting, at his fovereign nod,
With aweful thunder arm'd this mimic God;
Why did coy Poefy, tho' fondly woo'd,
Refuse that dearer fmile for which he fued,
And see him shed, in martial Honor's bloom,
The tear of envy on Achilles' tomb?
In vain would Reason those nice questions folve,
Which the fine play of mental powers involve :
In Bards of ancient time, with genius fraught,
What mind can trace how thought engender'd thought,
How little hints awak'd the large defign,
And subtle Fancy fpun her variegated line?
Yet fober Critics, of no vulgar note,
But such as Learning's fons are proud to quote,
The progrefs of Homeric verfe explain,
As if their fouls had lodg'd in Homer's brain.
Laughs not the fpirit of poetic frame,
However flightly warm'd by Fancy's flame,
When grave Boffu by System's studied laws
The Grecian Bard's ideal picture draws,
Ver. 231. See NOTE IV.
And wifely tells us, that his Song arofe
As the good Parfon's quiet Sermon grows;
Who, while his eafy thoughts no preffure find
From hofts of images that croud the mind,
Fift calmly fettles on fome moral text,
Then creeps-from one divifion-to the next?
Nor, if poetic minds more flowly drudge
Thro' the cold comments of this Gallic judge,
Will their indignant spirit lefs deride
That fubtle Pedant's more prefumptive pride,
Whose bloated page, with arrogance replete,
Imputes to VIRGIL his own dark conceit : *
And from the tortur'd Poet dares to draw
That latent fenfe, which HORACE never faw;
Which, if on solid proof more strongly built,
Muft brand the injur'd Bard with impious guilt.
While fuch Dictators their vain efforts waste
In the dark vifions of diftemper'd Taste,
Let us that pleafing, happier light pursue,
Which beams benignant from the milder few
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